


Ferris Wheels

by TheVineSpeaketh



Series: Love Actually Is All Around [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Pining Enjolras, Tattoos, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras’s mouth fell open. “You have tattoos.” Grantaire, not trusting his voice, gave a little nod.</p><p>Enjolras groaned, moving quickly away from Grantaire, putting his face in his hands. “That information was not helpful at all,” Enjolras said, his voice muffled by his palms. He was slightly hunched, as if trying to physically keep himself from straightening and looking Grantaire in the eye. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.”</p><p>“I don’t either,” he replied, his voice slightly hardening through his confusion, and he pulled himself away from the depths of his reactions with it. “Why don’t you try to explain it as best you can? Because, to be completely honest, you’re kind of freaking me out here.”</p><p>(In which Enjolras is pining and Grantaire is... also pining.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ferris Wheels

**Author's Note:**

> Stop me from listening to French jazz, okay? I just keep writing fluffy fics and I can't stop myself.
> 
> As usual, much love to all of you for reading, and hope you enjoy some fluff!
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)

Grantaire didn’t expect to be woken at 3 in the morning, though he wasn’t exactly surprised. Many times he had been woken around this hour by Eponine, but she usually gave warning many hours beforehand that she might show up, so he always had tea and a few movies ready (and, if the need arose, alcohol). Incidents like those usually only happened after she attended one of the ABC meetings, and she hadn’t been to this particular one (she had claimed illness, but of course, Grantaire knew the truth; she was probably tired of watching the guy she loved make eyes at somebody else, someone so decidedly opposite her that it was probably the reason why she crawled back to _Grantaire,_ of all people).

It probably wasn’t Eponine, then, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility. And he was far from so much of an asshole that he would leave her outside freezing on his doorstep. True, the apartment building had heating, but not in the hallways, and it was a bit of a chilly night out. So Grantaire, still bleary with sleep, only fidgeted in bed for a few seconds before the thrumming noise that had awoken him, which he could now successfully identify as a knock, began permeating his apartment again. Deciding he’d wasted enough time snuggling in bed, he rose to a sitting position, throwing his comforter aside and being suddenly struck by how cold it was exactly, and remembering that he’d been too lazy to pull on a shirt after his shower and had just fallen into bed with pajama pants on.

He’d been so tired, having spent all day running around putting up flyers for Enjolras, then actually having to sprint afterward to catch a class, and then having to rescue Marius from a thorough chewing out from one of his professors due to some apparently spectacular blunder his group had made on a project (the details of which Marius had assured him were too sordid to be shared) just so they could make the meeting on time. Then, he’d spent the majority of it arguing with Enjolras, insisting that shock value was not the way to go with the particular issue (being hunger) because people were used to that by now, Enjolras, and there was nothing on earth that they could hit them with about hunger that was more shocking than their previous attempts.

The result of that argument had been less than satisfactory on all accounts, with Enjolras decidedly ignoring Grantaire’s last argument to instead change the subject of the meeting to something else, another one of the numerous campaigns they were running. Enjolras hadn’t sent any other queries his way for the rest of the night, though he seemed to stiffen uncontrollably every time Grantaire drank from his bottle and his lips seemed to press into a firm line every time he touched a pen to sketch something on one of his notebooks.

He’d been doing that a lot as of late, now that Grantaire thought of it. He would arrive to each meeting all noble and full of hope, as he usually did, and would set up and begin presenting as normal. Grantaire would eventually pipe up with his usual argument and Enjolras would answer it. That much was as it had always been. It was _after_ the arguments that things seemed to change; instead of following each argument to its usual explosive conclusion, Enjolras would just stop in the middle of a tirade. He would refuse to answer Grantaire, instead just changing the subject. Even after the fact he would avoid Grantaire’s gaze, and wouldn’t speak a word to him on the way out. It was… odd, to say the least.

The noise at the door sounded again. Oh, right. The door.

Grantaire rose to his feet, not bothering to throw on any clothes (Eponine didn’t care much, anyway; she usually floated straight toward the booze, and then to the couch), and headed for the door. Yawning, he undid the lock carelessly and pulled it open, scrubbing a hand through his hair and looking down at his feet. “Yello,” he said through his yawn, shaking his head slightly and removing his hand from his hair, looking up.

He froze entirely in place when he noticed that no, _that was certainly not Eponine on the other side of his door._ Instead of being faced with a surly brunette who would usually have brushed by him by now murmuring something unpleasant about perky blondes and charming brunettes and their Disney-singalong-relationships, he was standing in front of the direct dichotomy of that. Blonde hair tied messily behind his head, broader shoulders, slimmer hips, taller stance and skin that practically glowed.

“Oh,” Grantaire breathed. “Apollo. It’s, like, three in the morning.” No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get himself to adjust his position. Or stop the breathy quality of his voice. Perhaps he could pass it off as sleepiness.

Wait. Enjolras was at his apartment at ungodly hours of the morning. Enjolras _never_ came to his apartment. He straightened up, suddenly alert with adrenaline. “Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice suddenly serious and low again. “Nobody’s hurt or anything, right?”

Enjolras, who he just now noticed was relatively frozen with an expression on his face that read shock, shook his head and furrowed his brows. “What? No, nobody’s been injured, I just…” Here, he paused, and his eyes positively _raked_ over Grantaire’s frame. There was something in Enjolras’s eyes that he’d never seen before, something dark and almost feral, and he could nearly _feel_ his eyes on him, it was so intense. Grantaire was alarmed to find he had actually shivered from that look flowing over him. Deciding he could blame it on the coldness of the hallway on his bare skin—bare skin, oh good fucking _Lord_ —he stepped back, gesturing for Enjolras to come in, if only to shield himself from that look with the door.

“Get in here,” he said, and he had _not_ meant to say that, especially not with that tone of voice, but he was cold and sleepy and Enjolras had to actually shake himself out of his stupor again before he could step into the room, so Grantaire really couldn’t be blamed if he was unable to function properly right now.

He shut the door and turned to Enjolras, whose focus, which would have usually wandered to the items Grantaire kept in his home, was actually pinpointed on Grantaire. Grantaire had to speak, because if he didn’t he was going to do something ridiculous to Enjolras, and he was unsure what the fuck was happening right now. “Is something the matter?” he pressed quietly, trying to keep his voice near a whisper, and it actually worked, thank God. Enjolras looked him in the eye again, his face almost back to normal, even if he was biting his lip as if trying to keep something from spilling out. It was distracting, but Enjolras was distracting to him in general, so he could live with this.

“I actually do have a problem, yes,” he began, his voice very low, and Grantaire was glad he was leaning against the door. “It involves you.”

“I got as much, seeing as you turned up at my apartment and all.” Enjolras blinked at that, twice, as if he was surprised that he actually had turned up. Then he looked away and smiled, but it was a disbelieving smile, accompanied by a noise that spoke of disapproval. Grantaire was still confused.

“I did, didn’t I?” he asked, actually taking a look around, but it was more at the walls and the ceiling than at any of the belongings. “I actually came here to talk about this. I must be insane.”

“If it’s about a campaign,” Grantaire began, pulling away from the door and coming to stand at full height, and Enjolras’s eyes instantly trained on him again, as if he was an assassin unwilling to let him out of sight. As if Grantaire was prey.

The rest of Grantaire’s sentence nearly died in his throat at the look on Enjolras’s face, but he continued anyway. “If it’s about a campaign, I’m pretty sure I can help out if you’re looking for another point of view.”

Enjolras looked at him, _really_ looked at him, before shaking his head. “No, it’s not that.” Then, his eyes zeroed in on something on Grantaire’s arm, as if he hadn’t seen it before when he had examined him. “Is that a tattoo?”

“Huh?” The question caught Grantaire so unexpectedly that he had to actually glance down at himself to remember that the majority of the upper half of his right arm was covered in tattoos. “Oh, yeah,” he said, looking back up, again struck by the look on Enjolras’s face. “Yeah, they’re from a while back. I don’t really like to show them off. Not really worth making a big deal over, you know?”

Enjolras wasn’t listening. That much was made certain when he took a step forward, his eyes trained on the dark patch of skin on Grantaire’s upper body. He cocked his head, taking in every little design that meshed together that served to form the semi-sleeve Grantaire had. Grantaire was still, his breathing coming in slightly painful with each breath, and his heart was thudding in his chest. He watched Enjolras’s eyes as they scaled up his arm, coming to linger on the pulse point in his neck before following the curve of his jaw, his lips, all the way to his eyes.

Enjolras’s mouth fell open. “You have tattoos.” Grantaire, not trusting his voice, gave a little nod.

Enjolras groaned, moving quickly away from Grantaire, putting his face in his hands. “That information was not helpful at all,” Enjolras said, his voice muffled by his palms. He was slightly hunched, as if trying to physically keep himself from straightening and looking Grantaire in the eye. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

Yes, this was something Grantaire could latch onto. This was the usual Enjolras; somebody who attached to reason and tried to figure stuff out. “I don’t either,” he replied, his voice slightly hardening through his confusion, and he pulled himself away from the depths of his reactions with it. “Why don’t you try to explain it as best you can? Because, to be completely honest, you’re kind of freaking me out here.”

Enjolras stood up straight, his eyes closed, and he breathed in and out, deep and long. When he opened his eyes, he seemed back to himself, though he avoided looking at Grantaire, and instead focused his gaze on an electrical outlet by the door. “I’m sorry I just barged in here at three in the morning,” he said, his voice much softer and more like Enjolras, though not by much. In the time Grantaire had known him, he never knew Enjolras to be tender or soft. He was always hardened, and terrifyingly beautiful, and analytical, and inspiring. “I just needed answers to my questions. I’ve got a serious problem, and I think that maybe you can help me with it.”

Grantaire crossed his arms. “I’m listening. Ask away.” Enjolras was silent, still staring at the outlet. “You said it had something to do with me. Did I offend you somehow? Are you trying to find an easy way to tell me to fuck off? Stop coming to meetings?”

Enjolras’s gaze ripped away from the wall to look at him, a look of incredulity on his face, as if Grantaire’s response was completely unprecedented. “Why would you think that?’ he asked, his voice still very light, as if he was attempting to not break the strain of conversation between them.

“Well, you haven’t been able to stand me recently,” he replied, and when he saw Enjolras move to speak, he raised a hand, and was surprisingly rewarded with silence. “I mean, you’ve been ignoring me outside of l’ABC, you’ve been openly disapproving of my drinking habits and my sketching during meetings—which the first is just normal for you, but the second one?—and you’ve actually been stopping mid-argument to change the subject.” Grantaire’s chest tightened at the implications of what he was saying, and the look on Enjolras’s face, but he had to press on. “You’re avoiding me. If you want me to stop attending meetings, just say so. It’s clear you’re uncomfortable. I mean, if you can’t focus with me there, then I should stop going.”

Enjolras didn’t respond as quickly as Grantaire was used to him responding to accusations of any sort, but he did actually respond, so he considered that a good thing. “Grantaire, it isn’t like that at all,” he replied, taking a step forward, but he stepped back just as quickly, clenching his fists and looking down, breathing out a frustrated huff. It was unlike any way Grantaire had previously seen him, and it was strange. Enjolras looked up again, straight into his eyes, and Grantaire could see the determination within them, the absolute stubbornness that they held that proved to him time and time again that no matter how difficult any situation, he would see it through to the end. “I’m not avoiding you because of that. I wish I could say I wasn’t avoiding you at all, but that wouldn’t be true. And it’s not,” he said loudly, holding up a hand and silencing Grantaire before he could even retort, “because I have been offended by you, or that I can’t stand you. I haven’t been offended by you at all. It’s just… me. It’s been me this entire time, not you.” He sighed and looked down, scrubbing a hand through his hair, mussing it just a little bit. He looked exhausted.

“What’s going on, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked quietly, leaning back against the door again.

Enjolras looked up at him, looking almost mournful for a moment before his eyes settled into an expression of grim resignation. It did not suit his features. “Lately, I’ve been having dreams. At first, they were simple. It would be just you and I, but in different places. Like the park, perhaps, or the Musain. We would always be alone, and always just be spending time together.” He looked away again, back at the electrical outlet that had caught his eye earlier. “And then they started getting different. We started doing things, different things than usual, and it seemed more and more like we were…” he trailed off here, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze still not meeting Grantaire’s.

Grantaire was a selfish bastard and he knew it. He knew that long before this, but opening his mouth now seemed like definitive proof. “Like we were…?” he prompted, gaining another incredulous look from Enjolras that also bordered on terrified.

“Ah—uhm… Like we were…” He swallowed then, his throat clicking, and Grantaire suddenly registered Enjolras’s body language, his hunched shoulders, his wide eyes, his dry throat. He was _nervous._ Grantaire started a bit, startled by this new information. Nothing made Enjolras nervous, as far as Grantaire could tell. He was always strong, standing up straight, his body language seeping confidence and enthusiasm, but also deadly disapproval when he couldn’t get anybody to stop being unnecessarily hateful or spiteful about something. He always had something to say, always, even when there was dissent in the ranks and nothing seemed to make sense. He always had words, they were his weapon, and right now, he had lost them. For once, Enjolras was left wordless with nothing to say.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, stepping forward a bit, wanting to reach out to Enjolras and tell him that he didn’t have to say it now, that he could say it later or something, because Enjolras was looking seriously terrified about this.

Enjolras moved before he could, though, suddenly standing up taller, his gaze meeting Grantaire’s and not moving away, his eyes fierce. “Like we were in love,” he said, a slight crack in the middle of his sentence, but he was trying, and Grantaire could see that. He was, however, a little more distracted by what Enjolras just said in the first place—Enjolras had dreams that he and Grantaire were falling in love. “And I don’t mean to alarm you like this, certainly not so late in the night, and I apologize for my oversight in that regard,” he said, and he was back to his usual Enjolras-y self, except there was some strange light in his eyes that Grantaire had a hard time un-seeing, “but it was keeping me up, and it _has been_ keeping me up, and I really need my sleep.” He put his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet and nearly murmuring this next part. “But I can’t sleep when all I think about is you, and all I dream about is you. And I can’t look at you at the Musain anymore, or argue with you, because sometimes I get thoughts that are distracting, like how you smile, or your laugh, and I wonder if maybe I could get you to laugh like that and smile like that at me. And sometimes I think about your hands, and what it’d be like to hold them, and your arms, and what it’d be like to be embraced by them.”

He threw his head back and laughed, though, before Grantaire could say anything. “And that’s why I think it’s so foolish that I’m here, spouting poetry and whatnot. Jehan would be cringing quite fiercely if he could hear me now. I do your attributes no justice.” He looked at Grantaire, his eyes shining with a kind of sadness, as if he was resigned, and whoa, Enjolras needs to slow down a second. “It’s fruitless, isn’t it?”

“Slow down a second,” Grantaire echoed his thoughts, closing his eyes and holding out both of his hands, clearly trying to absorb all of this at once. “You keep having dreams of us that have slowly morphed into dreams about…” he had to keep himself from jumping around with glee as he said this, because this may or may not be a good thing, “love, and it is through these dreams that you have realized that you are distracted by me? That’s your issue with me?”

“No,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire’s eyes opened. Enjolras looked heavenly, his hair a wild halo about his head where strands had flung themselves loose of their ties, his mouth set in a determined line, his eyes trained on Grantaire’s with a fearsome look in them. Even in the dim light of Grantaire’s kitchen at three in the morning, Enjolras was beautiful.

He moved closer to Grantaire, holding his hands up, as if about to reach for him, before letting them fall to his sides. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess what I’m saying is, I may have fallen in love with you. And I know it’s hopeless, because we don’t like each other. And if it’s not that, then we’re certainly not on good terms, because you rarely speak to me and I rarely speak civilly to you. And I wish I could change that, but if you think that I don’t deserve another chance, then that’s fine. I’ll accept that. Just…” He sighed again, looking up at Grantaire with that resigned look on his face again, that look that Grantaire wanted nothing more than to kiss away. “I just want you to know that I think about you, a lot. I’ve tried everything I could to stop, but I can’t.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I can’t seem to quit anything that has to do with you.”

Grantaire was frozen in place, and if he was gaping, well, there was nothing he could do to stop that. This had to be some kind of dream, it _had_ to be, because there was no way Enjolras would lose sleep over him. _Him,_ of all people, the drunken loser sitting at the back of the café who never spoke an encouraging word except to those who were pursuing artistic things, or overcoming personal challenges, or things of more merit to Grantaire, like friendships and love. Not him, the bully with the scarred knuckles and the smoker’s lung who didn’t come from a happy family and thus has one that’s makeshift and strange, quilted together like orphaned swaths of cloth. Grantaire couldn’t have captured Enjolras’s attention, much less his heart, because Grantaire wasn’t worth either of these things. That was one of the reasons why he took so much joy in being contrary; he kept Enjolras on his toes, kept himself thinking without spiraling back into that hole from whence he came, and also to see Enjolras’s blue eyes shift to his and hold his gaze, leaving room for nobody else. It was the only time he had Enjolras’s undivided attention.

Until now. Now, here he was, standing in Grantaire’s kitchen, his hands in his pockets and his eyes hesitant, all at once scared and strong without any strange consequences. He just admitted he may have fallen in love with Grantaire. And Grantaire could not move to save his life.

Enjolras looked past Grantaire’s shoulder at the door before standing up straighter, removing his hands from his pockets. “I should, uhm,” he said, and Grantaire shook his head, coming out of his gaping silence. Enjolras looked grim, like he did after a failed petition or when one particular candidate that he had arranged voting boycotts for had been elected into public office. “I should get going. It’s late and I don’t want to keep you up any longer.” He moved to the door, and Grantaire blankly stepped out of his way, still staring at him with wide eyes.

Enjolras grabbed the handle, stopping for a moment before turning to Grantaire, his eyes wide with vulnerability. “I’d appreciate it if you had the good grace not to tell anybody about this. I know you’re private by nature, but I just… wanted to be sure.” Enjolras looked at him for a moment, trying to gain some kind of confirmation, but Grantaire was still staring at him.

Enjolras’s brow furrowed before he turned, opening the door, and the sound of the handle turning woke him completely from his reverie. He pressed his hand to the door and it shut, Enjolras stepping back away from the door and giving Grantaire a look.

“Grantaire?” he asked, his voice soft and slightly firm, as if he thought Grantaire was messing with him, but he wasn’t.

“I’m not messing with you,” Grantaire clarified, because he felt that particular detail needed to be said. “I just need a moment to remember how to use my words.”

Enjolras quirked a brow, but didn’t look uncomfortable. “Okay,” he said.

What could Grantaire say, exactly? Or rather, how could he say it? How could he say that he had loved Enjolras for a long time now, that he had always found him beautiful, that he had seen him when he was sick and when he was drunk and when he was tired and still found him to be stimulating, and lovely, and had still had uncomfortable heart palpitations around him? How could he tell Enjolras just how much he had changed Grantaire’s outlook, and how much he had given Grantaire without him knowing? How could he say that he didn’t drink as much because he wanted to stay sharp when Enjolras was grilling him, or that he had quit drugs a few months ago because Enjolras had volunteered at the local clinic and had come back with nothing but hopeful stories of the kind of people in there. How could Grantaire tell him that he doodled him on every slip of paper in sight that didn’t require his signature, because he adored his curls, his eyes, his lips, his nose, the curl of his jaw and the cleft of his chin and he knew that he would never be able to keep the real thing, so he would have to settle for as close a duplicate as he could manage?

He knew a way, and it ended up flying out of his mouth without his own permission. “I love you,” Grantaire said, and it came out like a curse, and his eyes flew wide open to find Enjolras staring back. His look was surprised, but not angry, so Grantaire continued, his words pouring in a quick stream that he couldn’t stop once it started. “God, I have always loved you. And it’s not because you told me this tonight, though I’m fucking ecstatic that you could even see me like this, that you would wake up at three in the morning and come all the way to my stupid apartment to tell me you fell in love with me, because I thought I was the only one prone to stupidly romantic tendencies, like imagining holding your hands and shit. You don’t know, do you, how much you’ve done for me without any sense of self-preservation, without any realizing it or anything. I’ve loved you since you first looked at me and said, ‘you’re more, I’m sure of it,’ and you fucking convinced _me,_ **_me_** , of all people, that you were right. And I find myself trying to be better because of you, and I’m still working on it, and I have been, but I’ve also been too chicken-shit to come out and tell you that I love you, and I’ve loved you since I first remembered to breathe after I saw you, I love you.”

He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes, clenching his fists at his sides and remembering that he was semi-naked, and he was literally bared entirely to Enjolras right now. “And I’m not perfect, God knows I still drink and yell obscenities, and I swear too much, and I’m cynical and dispassionate and rife with issues, and my brain is a bag full of cats, and I’m a bit on the ugly side, if I’m going to be honest, but that doesn’t mean—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, though, because something was touching his hand, something warm that encompassed his fist on both sides, pulling his hand away from his side and uncurling his fingers. He opened his eyes, looking up to see Enjolras closer than he was before, grasping Grantaire’s hand and pulling his taut fist open, his fingertips running over Grantaire’s palm. He had a soft smile on his face, a few curls falling into his eyes, and he was a very pleasant shade of pink. “I think,” he said, his tone soft and gentle, “that we are on the same page.” He laced his fingers into Grantaire’s, his other hand falling away, and he finally looked into Grantaire’s eyes. “I love you, and you love me. Correct?”

Grantaire, incapable of speech, simply nodded. Enjolras’s smile, if at all possible, grew even happier.

“Good.” His eyes shot to Grantaire’s lips before looking at the rest of his face, and his smile faltered a bit. “I would like your permission to kiss you, if that’s okay.”

Grantaire grinned. “Because consent is important?” he asked, squeezing Enjolras’s hand.

Enjolras’s smile returned full force. “Yes,” he replied, “because consent is important.”

Grantaire smiled, reaching forward to grasp Enjolras’s other hand, twining their fingers together. “Yes, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, noticing the way Enjolras’s eyes lit up when he said his name. “You can kiss me. I highly encourage it.”

Enjolras let out a little puff of air, and it hit Grantaire’s face, reminding him of their proximity. “Oh, good,” he replied, leaning forward, “because I’ve been dying for a chance to.” Their lips met, softly at first, until Enjolras increased the pressure, moving forward and pressing himself tightly to Grantaire. He let go of Grantaire’s hands to throw his arms over Grantaire’s shoulders, fully plastering his body to Grantaire’s, and if Grantaire had had fantasies about his first kiss with Enjolras (which he totally had, what hopeless romantic hasn’t?), then none of them could compare to the real thing. Enjolras kissed like the stereotypical French lover in American movies. He kissed like everyone was watching and he had something to prove; that Grantaire was his, perhaps, and that he was Grantaire’s.

Grantaire let himself grasp for Enjolras’s waist, tugging him even closer, earning a soft moan from Enjolras’s lips, and _oh, dammit,_ now was a great time to remember he was half-naked and Enjolras was in his apartment and it was three in the morning—probably going on three-thirty or four now. “I’m going to kill myself for saying this,” Grantaire said as he pulled back, but Enjolras pressed in again, cupping Grantaire’s jaw with one hand while skimming his chest with the other, and Grantaire bit back a sigh, instead nipping at Enjolras’s lip before pulling away. “But you, my dear, have a class tomorrow, and you need your sleep.”

Enjolras pulled away, hanging off Grantaire’s shoulders again and smiling dreamily up at him, his eyes heavily-lidded, and maybe Enjolras had been tired this entire time, and had just been too nervous to show it. “I could drink a lot of coffee and pretend that I don’t need sleep?” he suggested, but it came out more as a question, and Grantaire sighed, grinning a little. He kissed Enjolras’s nose, surprised when Enjolras’s lips chased his and snared him once again. He would never get tired of the sensation of kissing Enjolras, or the thought of Enjolras wanting to kiss him.

“Combeferre will call me irresponsible if I let you do that,” Grantaire said, dancing out of Enjolras’s grip and away, evading the hands that were attempting to follow him, “and I’d rather not sully my reputation, thank you kindly.”

Enjolras laughed, moving after Grantaire and cornering him, putting his hands to his hips and leaning in low, kissing his jaw and nosing into his neck. Grantaire’s breath hitched at the warm gust of breath Enjolras cast down his neck and over his collarbone. “Can I sleep here?” he asked, his voice quiet and nervous again. “I would rather not walk alone to my apartment at this hour, and I’m pretty sure Combeferre will not mind if I stay here, if you are so worried.”

Grantaire pretended to deliberate, but his hands were already working on Enjolras’s jacket, attempting to get it off of him, and Grantaire wondered what he would have that would fit Enjolras’s long legs. “I guess that’s alright,” he said, his tone teasing, and Enjolras nipped at his ear.

“Mmm,” Enjolras hummed, allowing Grantaire to tug the garment off of him. “Good. We sleep tonight. I’ve been tired for a good long while, now.”

Grantaire smiled, feeling a bit drowsy again himself, and he moved, tugging Enjolras behind him as he made his way to his bedroom. “That’s funny,” Grantaire said, walking backwards with Enjolras’s hands in his, marveling at the fact that he could hold them. “Because I have a bed right here in my apartment.”

Enjolras quirked a brow, his grin returning and his eyes pleasantly hazy. “Is that so?”

“T’is,” Grantaire replied, and they slipped inside, Grantaire moving to the dresser as Enjolras flopped down on the bed, facing the ceiling. Grantaire pulled out the longest pants he had and prayed that they would fit, turning to Enjolras and throwing them at him. They flopped onto his face, and Grantaire chuckled, sliding into bed. “Change.”

Enjolras groaned, but got up and did so, and Grantaire turned his back to Enjolras and looked away to spare himself the unnecessary feelings that would come from watching Enjolras get undressed. Sleep now, he reasoned, and other things to come later. Unless Enjolras wasn’t thinking about later, in which case Grantaire would be severely hurt, but unsurprised. Rarely did good things stay in his life.

There was a rustling behind him, and then an arm hooked around his waist, Enjolras nuzzling close behind him, and all his doubts fled like mice in the light. “What are you thinking about?” he murmured sleepily, nuzzling the back of Grantaire’s neck.

Grantaire grinned, turning his lamp off. “Nothing,” he replied, turning to face Enjolras. “Sleep now.”

And sleep they did.


End file.
